Small Favors
by kay-emm-gee
Summary: Small favors born out of sheer necessity (part I, part II) forge a unique intimacy (part III, part IV, part V, part VI) that brings forth intense chemistry (part VII, part VIII). Or, how Bellamy & Clarke take their time falling in love, with some cameos by other favorites in the The 100.
1. Sheer Necessity (Part I)

_Because it confuses me why girls on TV shows always have their hair down when they're doing important things and because Bellamy would totally know how to deal with girls' hair having Octavia for a sister and because Bellamy and Clarke (in any capacity) are just the best._

* * *

><p>"Come on, hair," Clarke muttered. Leaning back from the wounded boy on her table, she used the back of her wrist to push some damp strands from her face. They were itchy, stiff, and completely in her way all of the time. Other than finding a spare few minutes (like she had any of those) to go down to the river and wash up, what she desperately needed was a hair tie. By now, most of the girls had broken the ones that they had when they arrived, and no one had found a good back-up solution as of yet. Her half-pulled-back arrangement was the best she could do in the meantime.<p>

She shook her head to get at least some of the offending strands over her shoulder. Before starting to patch up her current patient, she had tried to tuck the ends into her shirt, but they had slid free, like they always did. _My kingdom for a hair tie_, she thought, smiling wryly.

Bellamy popped his head into the dropship. "How's that wound closure coming?"

"It's going," Clarke responded, dropping her head to begin stitching again.

"Can it go any faster?"

Clarke didn't even bother to look up, just let out a disbelieving breath. "He's not going to be in any shape to go back to work today."

"Clarke—"

She looked towards the drop-ship entryway. Through the stands of her (_goddamn_) hair, she saw Bellamy leaning against the frame, a mulish expression on his face. "Tomorrow, he can start again," she relented. "Light stuff, mind you. Today, he rests it."

Bellamy sighed, then called out sternly, "Hear that, kid? You rest that leg today. If you get that cut infected, you'll have both me _and_ Clarke to deal with, okay?"

The boy nodded furiously, and Bellamy turned to exit. Returning her attention to the wound, Clarke flipped her hair over her shoulder again, but it slid forward. She blew out a frustrated breath before shouldering it back once more. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bellamy pause momentarily, before shaking his head and returning to the yard, mumbling something that to Clarke sounded awfully like "friggin' reckless kids." She smiled as she finished stitching.

* * *

><p>Later, when she returned to her tent for the night (after dinner, and the campfire, and meeting with Bellamy, and checking up on the kid with the leg wound, and breaking up a fight over <em>nothing,<em> and a million other things), she flopped face-first onto her makeshift mattress. _So tired._ Like every night since she had landed on earth.

She then felt something cool and soft pressing into her cheek, and she sat up onto her stomach. Three strips of leather were lying on her bed, each about a half-inch wide and of varying lengths. Clarke picked them up, running them between her fingers. Their underside was rough and uneven; she turned them over, seeing someone had made hatch-marks in the material. Her hair slid over her shoulder at that moment, and she smiled widely. Sitting up, she gathered her hair into a ponytail, winding one of the strips around it, rough side down, before tying it off. She shook her head gently, but her hair stayed in place. She shook it a little harder, and a few strands fell out, but she sighed contentedly anyways. _Take that, hair_, she thought as she laid back down, drifting off into sleep.

* * *

><p>The next morning (very <em>early <em>morning to her dismay), she opened the bandage on the kid's leg. She felt Bellamy lean in closer.

"You hovering isn't going to make me clear this kid any faster," she grumbled. He had woken her up at the crack of dawn to check out the wound, despite knowing she liked mornings as much as he liked not being in charge. She knew his fervor over the wall was warranted; they needed it reconstructed before winter. Aside from keeping out any wandering Grounders or scavenging animals, it also would provide insulation, shielding most of the yard from bitter winds. And those winds were getting worse by the day. She expected snow to hit them at any moment now.

Still, his lurking wasn't helping. "Back up, or you wait outside," she barked.

He huffed disbelievingly but took a few steps away from her and the kid. She resumed her inspection, prodding gently at the stitches, pulling lightly at the skin. It was already healing, she saw. The kid had listened to them and kept it still and clean yesterday. Whether it was the threat of infection or of retribution from Bellamy (and her) that scared him into submission, she didn't know. But she did know one thing.

"He's cleared to work. Now, he can't do any heavy labor, but as long as it's brief walking—he really should be mostly seated—he'll be fine."

The kid let out a tense, relieved breath, and Bellamy nodded, a small grin gracing his face. "Good," he said. "There's plenty of stationary work to do, so let's get you started." Extending a hand to the kid, Bellamy pulled him up from the floor. "Go see Miller, tell him Clarke's orders, and he'll place you somewhere useful."

As the kid hobbled out of the tent, Bellamy turned to Clarke, smiling brightly, taking her aback a bit. "Nice to see such a pleasant face this early in the morning."

She scowled, and only half meaning it, she said, "Piss off. Not everyone is an early riser. I swear you do this to me on purpose."

Bellamy laughed and took a step back, hands up in a gesture of surrender. "Woah, Princess, don't blame me for trying to keep us from dying of frostbite."

Clarke rolled her eyes. Bellamy laughed again, and turned to exit the tent. "By the way, now that I can see your whole face, without your hair in the way, when you're annoyed at me, I find you much more intimidating." With a cheeky smile, he let the tent flap drop behind him. Clarke reached up to touch the leather strip holding up her hair, and she smiled softly. _Of course._ Leaving the tent, she paused outside, looking for him.

"Bellamy!" she called after his retreating back. He stopped, turned halfway around. "Thanks. For, you know."

"Can't afford to risk medical care because of a hair malfunction," he says, his face neutral.

"We'll need some more."

"On it," he says, one side of his mouth cocked in a half-grin.

"You always are," Clarke whispers as he walks away.


	2. Sheer Necessity (Part II)

_Because Bellamy would be preoccupied enough to not think to treat his injuries, and Clarke would be stubborn and observant enough to think of it for him._

* * *

><p>"Bellamy!" Miller's loud call echoed over the bustling yard.<p>

Bellamy blew out a breath, and didn't move, not quite yet. He left his head hanging back, pointed straight up at the sky, eyes closed to the blinding midday sun. _Just a few more seconds._ The warmth on his face felt good. It was certainly better than the cold winds that nipped at his nose, ears, and fingers.

"Bellamy!" Miller shouted again. This time, Bellamy turned towards his second-in-command. Well, third, maybe, if you counted Clarke as his second. Though after everything that had happened (the Grounder interrogation, the guns, his pardon, the bridge), maybe _he _was the second. Shaking that thought off, he jogged over to the group Miller had assembled.

"We're ready," Miller said.

Bellamy looked over the large, thick, stripped tree trunk that had been chosen to serve as the last needed part for fortifying their camp wall. They would have put it up last week, when they finished repairs from the storm, but another deluge of rain (as if the hurricane hadn't been enough) had halted work. Now, though, with this piece, they would be reinforcing the last section. Bellamy smiled at that thought. _Finally_, _safety_. Or at least as close to safety as they could get here down on the ground.

"Let's get it up and done, then." He stepped back to let Miller's team do their thing. A half-dozen teens were on each side of the pillar and began to lift it upright and slide one end into the deep hole they had dug to anchor it. As he watched them carefully move the trunk into place, a flash of red appeared at his side.

"How's the white-picket fence coming?" Raven asked, twirling a bullet casing between her fingers.

"You mean the thing that's keeping you, me, and the rest of us from being Grounder target practice?"

Before Raven could quip back, a loud, distressed squeal echoed from her tent. She rolled her eyes, muttered "Jasper", before heading back.

Suddenly, a deafening bang resounded through the camp. Bellamy whipped around to see smoke billowing out of Raven's tent, which she was now running towards. As he took a step to follow her, a cry went up behind him. Turning back, his pulse spiked, then stuttered. Three kids down in the mud, the rest quickly losing their grip on the falling trunk that was about to crush those that had been startled by the explosion and slipped.

Bellamy surged forward, hands reaching up to catch the trunk. He couldn't fully stop its momentum, and the tree came crashing down onto his shoulder. He wobbled under the enormous weight, feet sliding back in the damp ground. He grimaced in pain and bent his knees, seeking more purchase while the workers scrambled to get back their grip again. When they did, he helped them guide the pole into its slot, holding it steady while they filled dirt and rocks in around it to keep it upright. Finally letting go, he stepped back, rolling his throbbing shoulder and flexing his bleeding hands. _Motherfriggin' son of a—_

"Jasper!" He yelled, furious_._ The entire camp fell silent.

"Handling it!" Raven yelled back, her voice muffled but just as frustrated. The smoke had lessened, but some still wafted out from her tent.

"Get out here, Jasper!" Bellamy yelled again.

"Not now! I need his stupid self to help me manage the mess in here!" Raven screamed, directing her anger at Bellamy.

"What is going on?" Clarke's demanding voice echoed over the yard. She hurried down the dropship ramp, her face pinched in annoyance (at him) and worry (at the explosion).

"Nothing a little corporeal punishment won't fix," Bellamy muttered as he began to storm towards the tent.

"Bellamy!" Clarke headed him off, tugging roughly on his arm. The bad one, no less. _Motherfriggin' son of a—_heresisted flinching, but he saw Clarke's expression soften, her eyes darting to his shoulder. "What happened?"

"Goggle-genius in there decided to play around with explosives while we were doing construction, almost causing three major crush injuries, if not dead kids, to end up on your table today. So excuse me if I'm going to make sure he remembers to not do that again."

"Raven sounds like she's handling it," Clarke said in a low tone. Bellamy could barely hear her words over the mechanic's swear-filled tirade echoing from her tent. He met Clarke's insistent gaze for a few seconds, glanced around the very still, very silent yard, then looked back at Clarke.

"Go handle something else," she said, firmly but kindly. She squeezed his arm, very gently, before walking back to the dropship. Bellamy breathed in, breathed out, then turned his back on the now barely-smoking tent.

"Alright," he called out. Miller and his team jumped to attention. "Let's get going. We need to finish before dark."

"Sure thing, boss," Miller replied.

Bellamy nodded at him, then snorted. _Boss, sure_. After this incident, there was no doubt in his mind that he was firmly in second place when it came to who was in charge around here. He let out a short, dry laugh as the tension left his body, then went to help out with the wall.

* * *

><p>It was well past sundown when Bellamy returned to his tent for the night. All he wanted was sleep, even if only for the few hours he was barely managing these days, but he just stood staring at his mattress. How to get down there without sending shooting pains through his damaged muscles was beyond him. <em>Friggin' Jasper, friggin' rain, friggin' forsaken Earth<em>. He dropped his head, bracing himself.

His shoulder screamed and his knees creaked as he awkwardly sat down on his mattress. The descent felt longer and harsher than their fall to Earth had. _Old man_, he thought mockingly. Not that far off, compared to some of the young ones that had come down with him. _So young_.

"Bellamy?" A soft voice called from outside his tent.

"WHAT." If he had a bullet for every time he heard his name in a day down here, the Grounders would then be the least of his worries.

"Just me." Clarke entered, pushing through the flap that served as Bellamy's only buffer to the outside world.

He groaned. "If you're here on Monty's behalf, I'll tell you what I already told him. I am not allowing a group to go look for mushrooms that will up the ante of his moonshine, not with pissed off Grounders out there. I don't care how crucial it is to his Unity Day preparations. "

Clarke raised her eyebrows. "I'm not here for Monty, but good to know. I'll have to remind him what I said about trying unknown ingredients. We don't need another nut incident."

"You're right about that," Bellamy replied, shaking his head. He looked up at Clarke, who was just standing there, hands clutching a cup and a covered container. "Then what do you need?"

"It's about what you need." She held out the cup.

Bellamy took it carefully. The metal was hot, and steam rose from the liquid inside. He sniffed it and sneezed. "What is this?"

"Just drink it."

He set it on his lap, looking up at her. "What is it?"

Clarke sighed, relenting. "Tea. It's a muscle relaxant and a pain reliever. I saw you favoring your arm today after the accident and figured this would help."

Bellamy nodded, then took a small sip. It was intensely bitter, and he coughed. "Tastes like—"

"Drink it," Clarke demanded. "Can't have you injured if the Grounders come."

Bellamy met her gaze over the rim of the cup. Her hair was pulled back from her face, but the shadows hid her expression. Bracing himself, he drained the cup in one motion, shaking his head afterwards. "Rough stuff," he commented. The warm liquid spread down his chest, loosening everything. "But it does the job."

She smiled briefly, then held out the metal container. "And this."

He took it from her small hand. Removing the cover, he saw it held a thick, fatty, whitish paste. Dipping a finger in, he brought a small sample to his mouth and tasted it. He pursed his mouth in immense disgust and was about to express how much he was _not _going to eat this, no matter how helpful, when Clarke's laughter exploded in the tent. Bellamy scowled up at her, his lips still tingling from the horrible stuff. She looked at him and another round burst from her, louder. She pressed her hand to her stomach, fingers splayed across her mud-flecked, blood-stained shirt.

"Really funny, Clarke. Nice of you, to make fun of a guy in pain. Great bedside manner," he spat out.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, I don't mean to—" Another peal of laughter interrupted her apology. "Really, I'm sorry." She pressed a hand to her smiling mouth, then moved it to her chest. "Sorry, I didn't think you would eat it, but I guess with the tea first, I could see how—never mind. Anyways, it's a balm. For your injury." She gestured to his shoulder. "The tea won't be enough."

Giving her one last glare, Bellamy pulled up the sleeve of his shirt. He used three fingers to dig a glob of paste out of the container and smear it on his shoulder. As he rubbed it in, the area grew warm, followed by a tingling sensation. It was like tiny pinpricks, unsettling but not uncomfortable. He rolled his shoulder, and while the pain was still there, it was more muted than before.

"Apply it twice a day for as long as the pain is still present. I have more stocks in the med-bay, if you run out," she said kindly. She reached up and swept a wayward lock of hair behind her ear.

"Thanks," Bellamy replied softly.

"Just doing my job, so you can keep doing yours."

"And what would that be?"

"Leading." She folded her arms across her chest, smiling.

Bellamy let out a single, quiet laugh. "Always a surprise, Princess."

"Night, Bellamy," she said, turning to leave.

"Night, Clarke," he replied as the flap dropped behind her retreating figure, leaving his battered body and tired mind alone in the dark, quiet tent.


	3. Unique Intimacy (Part III)

_Because I wanted to see Clarke-the-artist make an appearance again, and Bellamy always was good at seeing the big picture. Also I needed more of the delinquents in my writing (and my life hah), hence their inclusion :)_

_Also, this story occurs within the same universe as my series What the Ground Is, which fills in the time between chapters 2 & 3 (aka Finn's death and the aftermath/grieving). You defs do not need to read it for this story, but figured I'd mention it since this story is canon compliant and the characters may seem oddly at rest with what happened without my explaining that._

* * *

><p>Clarke let out a relieved breath as she walked out of her tent, the hand-carved, paint-splotched box under her arm. A soft breeze brushed her cheek, warm from the afternoon sun. With spring approaching, everyone at Camp Jaha had been spending more time outside as the temperature slowly climbed. The members of the rescued 47 valued that time the most, after being stuck in the mountain for so many tense, uncertain weeks.<p>

Clarke was simply happy to have new scenery to paint. Winter landscapes had grown tiresome; plus, she was almost out of white paint). She had painted scenes of the camp too, of course, but also had grown bored with all the red and black and blue. Her pots of green were almost entirely untouched, something she planned to change that very afternoon. Grass had finally pushed through the dry ground, and leaf buds had sprouted from the trees surrounding them. A few eager flowers even dotted the fields, and today, finally having an hour to spare, Clarke was going to paint it all.

She moved through the camp towards the gate, smiling at someone here and there, but no one stopped her for conversation, conflict resolution, or medical advice. The box she carried was her "closed for business" sign, had been since the day she had received it. Unused to something as frivolous as paint, when she opened the gift from the Grounders at their truce signing, singled out for her crucial involvement in the agreement, she didn't quite know what to do with it. Lexa had asked her, brow knit in confusion and a bit of frustration, "Are you not a painter? Lincoln said you were an artist." Clarke quickly reassured her that yes, she could paint, and yes, the gift was wonderful and that she was honored. _What else could she say?_ Since being on the ground, she hadn't thought of her artistry in any sense other than sketching maps of the terrain or drawing charts of medicinal versus toxic plants. She didn't know if she had it in her anymore, not after what the ground had done to her.

In the first few weeks after the exchange, the box remained at the foot of Clarke's bed, untouched. She was frightened of it, scared to find out if she had lost her ability, if the hands that had once been able to create now could only destroy (_Finn is dead_). The first time she picked up a brush she cried, and for a while all she could paint was his face. With time, after a dozen iterations of him, she brought herself peace, and maybe even Raven too. Clarke's throat closed up every time Raven rubbed the small stone pendant, with the painted image of him on it, now keeping the metal bird company, but the two of them were talking again. It was a start, at least.

After that, Clarke spent every spare moment she had practicing, quickly regaining her adeptness with a brush. Soon she was painting everything, painting everywhere, and her people had learned to let her be when she carried her box. So, as she moved through the camp this afternoon with it tucked under her arm, no one made a move to approach her, no one except Bellamy.

"Hey," he said, catching her by the arm before she could pass him by. "Got a minute?"

"Not really. I want to catch the light before the sun gets too much lower. What's up?"

Bellamy grinned, nodding towards the station. "I got something better. C'mon."

He turned and walked off, not bothering to see if she would follow. Sighing, Clarke hefted her box up, readjusting her grip, before trailing after him. Reaching the side of the station, they rounded the corner and came upon Abby, Jaha, and Kane.

"What do you think?" Bellamy asked, turning toward the station wall, looming tall above them. It had been stripped of extraneous pieces of metal, no gadgets hanging off it like the other sections.

"Ah, good job?" Clarke looked questioningly at him, then at her mother, who was smiling warmly, widely. "What's going on? Are we expanding the living quarters? I know that we need the space, but we may get another late snow storm and it's not the best idea to—"

"Honey, it's for you," her mother interrupted, stepping forward.

"We've survived our first winter here," Kane added, shooting a heavy look at Abby. Clarke could hear the _barely_ behind his words, but kept silent, letting him finish. "That's a milestone to celebrate, the Council thinks."

"I remember the first time I saw your drawings when you were younger, Clarke," Jaha said, as he looked up at the bare wall. "Extraordinary, is what I thought, even then. Your talent is remarkable."

"Thank you," Clarke responded, her cheeks warming at the sudden praise. "But what does that have to do with anything?"

"A mural," Bellamy answered her. "The Council wanted to do something to commemorate our survival so far. They want you to paint a mural, telling our story." He turned to look at her (_up for it, princess?_), and she was speechless (_where do I even start_). He smirked briefly at her silence (_you know where_), then looked down, scuffing his feet against the ground.

As Clarke turned to face the wall, her mother's arms slipped around her from behind, wrapping her shoulders in a tight hug. She grasped her mother's wrists, tipping her head back into the embrace. "Thanks," she whispered.

Abby kissed her temple briefly, then replied, "It was Bellamy's idea."

Clarke jerked her head back to Bellamy, but he was already gone, returning to his guard post. Shaking her head at his retreating figure, she glanced up at the wall again, lines and colors, faces and landscapes dancing across her mind, and she smiled. _The beginning: start at the beginning_.

* * *

><p>Clarke spent three weeks planning. She sketched and sketched, drafting her vision for the mural on spare bits of paper. Eventually she moved onto miniature replicas, painting on small sheets of metal that she stole from Wick's workroom when he wasn't looking. When he finally caught her one time, he complained that scrap metal was a scarcity down here, and how was he supposed to make <em>necessary<em> things like plates and furniture and tools when she kept taking his scarce supplies. Clarke just raised her eyebrows and said community morale _is_ necessary and to take it up with the Council if he had a problem with it. Also, it wasn't like he couldn't still use the stuff when she was done with it.

Raven, who had left her workroom at the commotion, barked out an amused laugh at Clarke's answer—_all hail the princess_, she told Wick, not unkindly—and Clarke felt another brick in the barrier between them crumble into dust. The wall may never come down, Clarke knew that, but she was grateful for any chink in the defense.

And for all of Wick's complaining, he certainly was Clarke's savior a week later when he presented her with a homemade paint roller. It worked far better than rags dipped in paint and smeared on the wall, which is what she had been using.

"My idea!" Raven yelled from across the yard when Clarke had taken the thing in her hand.

"My design!" Wick yelled back. Clarke grinned at him, and he just rolled his eyes. "Damn mechanics think they can do an engineer's job."

She just shook her head at him before returning to the med-bay, the roller tucked safely under her arm.

* * *

><p>Five days later, Clarke jogged through the dark yard towards the wood-and-metal guardhouse. When she peeked her head in the door, she saw Bellamy hanging up his gun, signing it back into the stash.<p>

"Good, you're still here," she said as he turned to the exit.

"Need me?" He asked, eyes half-shuttered in exhaustion. Bellamy always took the late-night shifts, the ones no one else wanted to take. _Someone's gotta do them_, he would say. _And it has to be you?_ She would respond, never getting a straight answer back from him.

"Just for a second." She left the guardhouse, listening for his heavy, firm footsteps to follow her.

"You're working this late?" He asked when they stopped in front of the wall hidden behind opaque plastic sheets.

Clarke shrugged. "I want the mural to be a surprise, so I have to work when no one else is around."

"Apparently we're both allergic to sleep."

She didn't respond, knowing that for them, although sleep was much needed, it wasn't something they got often, and when they did, well, it wasn't easily kept. Instead, she clambered up the ladder leaning on the leftmost side of the wall, pulling back the sheet as she climbed.

"I got the first panel done. Well, part of the first panel. I wanted to show you, make sure I got it right before I moved on."

As she secured the sheet on its hook, she listened for a response, but Bellamy remained silent. Turning on the ladder, she watched him look up at his sister's face painted on the wall, larger than life. His eyes traced the brushstrokes, taking it all in. She had painted Octavia at the moment of their arrival, arms raised, her mouth open in an exuberant cry (_we're back, bitches!_), eyes vivacious, hair wild, cheeks pink from the crisp, fresh air.

"I had trouble with the eyes," she blurted out, picking at the rusty metal rungs nervously. When Bellamy didn't respond, she continued, "Her eyes are just, so, full, I guess? It was hard to capture that, but I did the best—."

"Clarke," he interrupted her, voice thick and low, finally turning his heavy gaze to hers, brown eyes warm and shining. "Thank you. And it's perfect."

Ducking her head, Clarke smiled. "You said she should be remembered for something different."

He laughed, and it cracked a bit at the end. Clarke turned, releasing the sheet before descending the ladder, giving Bellamy time. When she stood by him again, he asked steadily, "Going to be needing some more paint, I'm guessing?"

"And then some." She paused, then grinned up at him. "Guess Octavia and Lincoln are going to have to make another supply run soon."

Bellamy sighed. "Don't remind me."

Realizing the small pots in her paint set weren't going to be nearly enough for the mural, Clarke had gone to Lincoln for help. In the past week, he and Octavia had spent their free time gathering the plants needed to make the extra pigments. Given how whenever they returned, Octavia would blush and Lincoln would avoid making eye contact with Bellamy, Clarke figured they used the time away form camp for other things as well. Clarke would smile at them, which always made Bellamy's scowl deepen, and then she would laugh, and he would huff in exasperation.

"He loves her," Clarke added.

"I know."

"She loves you, too."

Bellamy simply shifted his weight back onto his heels, lips curving just the slightest bit upwards. "Don't you have an early shift in medical tomorrow?"

"Yeah," Clarke said, the day's exhaustion finally creeping up on her. "And you have a hunting trip, right? Suppose we should call it a night."

Bellamy nodded, and Clarke walked back with him to the living quarters. As they went to part ways, he brushed her arm and asked, "You plan on painting this late every night?"

"Yes, until it's done."

"I can keep you company."

Clarke shook her head. "Bellamy, no, you have to get rest, it's not good for you to keep hours like this."

"Like you get any more than I do?"

"I could write you a doctor's note forcing you to get more."

"And I could tell your mom you're pulling all-nighters on this mural."

Clarke stared stubbornly up at him, lips pursing in frustration at the smile he was fighting to suppress.

"Same time, same place, tomorrow night?" He asked lightly.

"Fine," she relented. "Pain in my ass."

"You need me," he called as he walked down the hall towards his quarters.

Clarke didn't reply, just rolled her eyes as she wandered, smiling, back to her room.

* * *

><p>When Bellamy stopped by the mural the next night after his shift, Clarke stood resolutely at the base of the ladder, refusing to paint unless he went to bed, a last ditch effort to get him to sleep. He just shrugged, settled down on the ground a few feet away to face her, and pulled some nuts out of his pocket. <em>Suit yourself<em>, was all he said. As Clarke glared at him, he threw a nut up in the air, catching it in his mouth. When he grinned widely at her, she huffed out a breath in resignation. Leaning down to collect her brushes and paint, she told him to at least turn around and respect her wish for the mural to be a surprise if he was going to be an idiot and stay out here with her. He complied without a word, the (idiotic) smile still on his face.

They talked for a while, at least while she got started. He told her about the haul they had gotten on the hunting trip: two boars, a deer, and a dozen rabbits. She told him about the rowdy group of injured kids brought to her in medical who had split their heads, lips, hands, and basically everything else open after a game of 'grounder vs. reaper' had gotten out of control. He talked about the guard's plan for new lookout towers, and she described ground-specific additions she and her mother were adding to the medical recruits' training agenda. Eventually, though, their trading of information gathered over the day trickled to a halt, as Clarke became lost in her art.

The talking may have stopped, but Clarke still listened to Bellamy. Just underneath the smooth sound of her wet brush against the metal, she could hear him chewing on the nuts, sharp crunches extra loud in the empty yard. That was soon replaced by the metallic sounds of him deconstructing and cleaning his rifle, which in turn switched to soft rustling as he pulled a blanket out of his pack. She listened to him wriggle down into an almost-horizontal position as she hauled another bucket of paint up the ladder. Her brush slapped against the metal, swishing and squishing, but not quite able to drown out Bellamy's gradually slowing breaths. Eventually, she began to paint in time with his breathing, back-and-forth matching in-and-out. Only when he began to snore, interrupting her rhythm, did Clarke realize that sunrise was only a few hours away.

Cleaning up her brushes and paint rapidly, she walked over and nudged Bellamy's side with her toe. As he sat up, she raised an eyebrow, not saying a word. In response, he just looked at her and rolled his eyes, before gathering his things and following her back to the dropship, denying the whole way back that he was a snorer.

* * *

><p>They carried on like that for almost eight weeks, with Bellamy occasionally forcing Clarke to take a night off for some real sleep, until the mural was finally done. The day of the unveiling, Clarke didn't eat a thing all day, her stomach in knots. Monty had brought her some homegrown herbal tea at dinner to calm her, but it wasn't doing much to fight her nerves.<p>

_What if they hate it? What if it wasn't what the Council had intended? What if her people didn't understand what she painted, and why?_

As the sun hovered over the horizon, the crowd in the mess hall slowly began to trickle out to the covered mural wall. The unveiling was to be just before sunset, kicking off a celebration to welcome in summer. Clarke lingered at her table until the last possible moment, but finally, her mother popped her head into the empty hall and said, "It's time!"

The knot in Clarke's stomach tightened as they moved in front of the crowd gathered at the mural, and she wished she wasn't up here with her mother and the rest of the Council. She looked toward the back of the crowd for her friends, scanning faces, but seeing none of theirs. They hadn't come, and Clarke felt her throat catch. Of course they wouldn't come. They didn't want to see their history on the wall, didn't want to remember the pain that they had gone through to win the peace they had today. Her stomach heaved, and she regretted ever picking up a brush, why had she gone along with this—

A movement to her left caught her eye, and she turned, along with the rest of the Council to look at the group of latecomers. Bellamy was at the front, followed closely by Octavia and Raven, who were in turn backed up by Japser, Monty, Harper, Monroe and Miller. Behind them were the other familiar faces of the surviving 47, marching to the unveiling together, as one. Clarke closed her eyes and smiled, her stomach unclenching. As she listened to her people settle themselves at the front of the crowd—where they deserved to be, especially on this occasion—Clarke opened her eyes, looked up to the guard at the top of the wall, and nodded.

The plastic sheets covering the mural fell in a crinkling, crackling heap. Gasps and murmurs rippled through the crowd, followed by a thoughtful, respectful silence as they took in her work. Unable to look at her people quite yet, Clarke gazed up at the mural. Every stroke, every line, every swirl she knew intimately, but seeing the picture, in its entirety, and in the presence of her people, put a new lens on it for her. She saw it as they saw it.

It began with Octavia, taking up almost the whole first panel, with the dropship in the background. _She'll be remembered for something more, that's for sure_. Jasper followed closely, his figure a bit smaller though just as exuberant, standing on the other side of the river: _apogee!_ Raven came next, clutching her helmet in her escape pod, eyes sparking with confidence (_I made it!)_.

All three were smiling, happy in that rare way they were during those first weeks on Earth. It seemed odd, to have them smiling, when soon after each of them had ended up bleeding, but the mural was supposed to be a celebration of their survival, not a record of their pain. Still, as she had painted, Clarke hadn't been able to leave out the darker parts of their journey. Her eyes flicked up to the night sky at the top of the mural, focusing on the two white stars. The second one (_Charlotte_) is smaller than the first (_Wells_). If she looked down at the bottom of the mural, directly underneath the two stars, she would see a yellow-and-black knife sitting on top of a pile of rope nestled in the painted grass. The Arkers wouldn't understand, but her people would, and they would remember. And that was enough.

A bit further along in the night sky came a swirling, twinkling explosion of stars. Three hundred and twenty to be exact. Three bright red flares streaked across the sky after the starry mass (_the warning came too late)_, and standing below them were her and _(who else)_ Bellamy. At the center of the mural, they stood back-to-back, her hands clutch a bloody rag and rusty awl, a rifle resting in his, and the antidote collection at their feet. Clarke felt her cheeks warm in embarrassment looking up at the two of them. This part of the mural hadn't felt strange when she had sketched it, or practiced it, or painted it, but much like her partnership with Bellamy, their togetherness hadn't felt strange until others were seeing it. She realized how it looked, but as she took in their figures once more, she didn't care if others thought it was strange, or arrogant, or self-flattering. There hadn't been any other way to paint him, or her. That's who they were.

The rest of the mural was made up of smaller remembrances, the rapid-fire escalation of the danger that they had faced creating more story fragments for Clarke to have to tell. The bridge, and its demolition by mushroom cloud. A battery spilling out tangled wires that end in a ring of fire. Another cluster of stars in the sky, for those who never made it to the ground. The sign for Camp Jaha lying in the grass, and next to it Anya's braid. Raven's gate surrounded by backpacks. A rifle, a bloody knife and a broken compass surrounded by flowers, with a big bright star way up in the sky above them (_Finn_). The last image was of hands—one fair, one tattooed—clasped in truce resting above a rocky tunnel entrance, where Miller and Monty were leading their people out of the mountain, bleeding but smiling. The mural, and their story, ended like it began: with blood and smiles.

Clarke had spent so long staring at the mural, reliving their journey, that she didn't know when the clapping had started. When she faced the crowd again, though, the sound was deafening, shouts and whistles accompanying the applause. Her pulse thudded in her ears, and she stared at the admiring, excited faces taking her very much by surprise. Overwhelmed, she looked to those who matter the most, finding that the remaining members of the 100 were the source of the loudest claps and cheers.

Her mother appeared at her shoulder, whispering, "Go."

With a smile on her face and tears in her eyes, Clarke jogged to her people. They showered her with hugs, slaps on the back, and compliments as the larger crowd dispersed, migrating happily towards the to-be-lit bonfire. Soon, it was just her and her friends standing in front of the mural.

"Is my hair really that poofy?" Jasper asked, patting a hand on the top of his head.

"My mouth is definitely not that big," Raven said. "Whatcha trying to tell me, Clarke?"

"At least she got my boob size right," Octavia laughed. Jasper and Lincoln both blushed at that.

"Clarke, it's wonderful," Monty added, squeezing her upper arm in congratulations.

Lincoln nodded in agreement. "You have a very admirable talent."

Clarke received their teasing comments and compliments with good humor but kept glancing to where Bellamy stood, a small distance away from their group, arms crossed and eyes fixed on the mural still.

"Bell, come tell Clarke 'good job'," Octavia called. "Don't be a dick."

He didn't move.

"Bell!" His sister admonished. She stalked over to him, the rest of them falling in around the two siblings. "Bell?"

"Yeah?" He said finally, voice thick, still not looking at them.

"Are you crying?"

He took in a deep breath, and if had been anyone but Bellamy Blake, Clarke would have called it a sniffle. Octavia laughed, throwing an arm around her big brother in a brief hug. "It's ok, Bell, let it out. We won't tell anyone."

A watery chuckle slipped out of him, causing the rest of them to smile and join in. Finally, he slid a look at Clarke, eyes a bit red but also filled with warmth. "It'll do," was all he said.

Clarke rolled her eyes as she punched him in the shoulder, with Octavia slapping the side of his head at the same time. He protested and feigned injury, which no one believed. With the air growing chillier, their small group, grinning and chatting and laughing, began to make their way to the bonfire. Somehow, Clarke ended up trailing behind everybody else next to Bellamy. Before anyone turned around to tell them to hurry the hell up, she reached over and squeezed his hand (_thanks: for the mural, for the late-night company, for the approval_). He simply smiled at her in return as they caught up with their friends and joined the rest of the camp, their story on the wall behind them, so much smaller from this far away and fading to dark in the waning light of the setting sun.


	4. Unique Intimacy (Part IV)

_Because Bellamy-comforting-Clarke-after-a-nightmare is still too cute no matter how many times it is written about. | Glycerine - Bush_

* * *

><p>Bellamy shuffled down the residence hallway of former Alpha station, not quite sure how he had let Octavia talk him out of his very comfortable, very <em>real<em> bed. He still couldn't get enough of that, a real bed. Or real sleep for that matter. In the months following the truce between Camp Jaha and the Grounders, Bellamy had spent a lot of his time trying to sleep. So had the rest of the remaining 100. Their work hadn't ended with the Ark coming down; in some ways, it had grown harder. Convincing the adults to let them help had been impossibly frustrating, but once it had happened, their knowledge and experience of the ground had been utilized at every opportunity. They were constantly on call. Octavia, Clarke, Raven, Jasper, Monty, Miller, himself, and even Murphy, had shouldered most of that responsibility, as they had since coming down. Their help had certainly aided the truce agreement, and when that was achieved, Bellamy and his friends took what rest they could get, whenever they could get it. He never realized how much he valued sleep until he hadn't been able to these past five months. So, he was baffled at how his little sister had managed to wrangle him away from it at four in the morning.

The meteor shower, that's right. Bellamy still didn't understand why they were going to see it. They had lived in space for friggin' sake; meteor showers were nothing special.

"We saw these monthly on the Ark," Bellamy murmured to his sister, who was chatting away with Jasper and Monty. "So why are we traipsing outside at night, in this heat, to go see one now?"

"We've never seen one on Earth!" Monty exclaimed.

Bellamy huffed. "So?"

"Our first Earth meteor shower, you would miss that?" Jasper asked, surprised.

"C'mon Bell!" Octavia pleaded.

Bellamy looked at the three in front of him, their faces expectant. Octavia's eyes sparkled with earnest excitement. _Jesus_. Sometimes, he forgot how young she still was sometimes, especially in spirit. Jasper and Monty were no different, and he couldn't make himself squash that enthusiasm, not when it was so rare down here. So, Bellamy just rolled his eyes and said, "Lead the way."

Jasper and Monty whooped. Octavia smiled broadly before sweeping him into a large half-hug and dragging him towards the exit. As they walked out into the sweltering summer night, they ran into Monroe, Miller, and Murphy, with a lethargic Wick and Raven trailing behind them.

"They got you, too?" Raven grumbled sleepily.

Bellamy just shrugged his shoulders in response.

"Where's Clarke?" Monty asked.

"Uh, you were on Clarke duty," Monroe replied.

Jasper and Octavia just looked at the floor. Raven snorted.

"No one wants to wake Sleeping Beauty then, huh? I guess all of us prefer our appendages attached, then. Because anyone who wakes her before noon is certainly in danger of losing a limb."

"We can't let her miss it, it wouldn't feel right," Monty argued.

"Then you go get her," Murphy retorted.

Monty remained silent, then slid a glance at Bellamy.

"No," Bellamy responded, before Monty could even ask. He was _not_ going to risk breaking his two-month-long no-injury record to go wake Clarke. Even half asleep, she could inflict some real damage. He had experienced early-morning Clarke one too many times back at the dropship camp and had no desire to again, especially at this ridiculous hour.

"Why not?" Octavia asked. "You're the biggest. Less chance of injury."

"You'd throw me to the wolf, O?"

"Bell, it's almost time for the meteors, and no one else has a good shot of getting her up! We should all be together. Please, for me?" She looked at him hopefully, without a trace of slyness or teasing. Bellamy sighed. In her simple plea, he caught a glimpse of the girl she used to be, the one who had played "jungle" for hours, had screamed "We're back, bitches!," had chased radioactive butterflies. He didn't see that version of his sister much now. That Octavia, the playful, curious one, was hidden under the dirt and braids, under the ferocity and solemnity she now wore like armor.

He missed that girl, so he simply turned around, resigned, and walked back into the residence hall.

"You're the best!" Octavia called from behind him.

Bellamy simply lifted his hand in response, half-waving. The sound of their voices dropped away as he turned left, heading towards the living quarters closest to the main hall. The medical staff, including Clarke, had been assigned rooms there, so they would be easily reachable for emergencies. There were plenty of those, occurring even more frequently than they had at the dropship camp. The adults seemed to be more careless in this new world than a group of juvenile delinquents. _Go figure_. In the dark, Bellamy could smile at the irony, but he also knew it meant Clarke's sleep was even more precious, given the constant but necessary interruptions. Bellamy was really not looking forward to waking her for this _un_necessary one.

His footsteps gave off a soft, metallic echo as he walked down the barely lit hallway, scanning the door numbers to make sure he entered the right room. He didn't want to think about what Kane or Byrne would do try to do to him if he stumbled into the wrong one. Despite Clarke making his pardon well known around camp, not everyone could easily let go of his attempted murder charge. _Nor should they_, his conscious whispered quietly.

Finally, he arrived at 326. Knowing knocking wouldn't do a thing, Bellamy hesitantly slipped into the room, sliding the door closed behind him to block any light from the hallway. If he was going to get Clarke up, it was going to be as gradually as possible. No need to poke the beast more than necessary.

He could see her shadowy figure curled up in the bed. Bright blond hair covered the flat pillow, and her legs tangled with the sheets in a twisted mess. As he approached cautiously, he noticed her breathing was erratic and harsh. A whimper escaped her and her body twitched. He paused, and she thrashed, another distressed sound echoing in the otherwise quiet dark of her room.  
>"No!" She whispered. Then she screamed.<p>

* * *

><p><em>Reapers. Right behind her, in the dark. She ran, rocks and glass and metal scraps cutting at her bare feet. Vicious, savage voices echoed against the stone. She turned down the tunnel to the left, then right, left, left, right, still running. Their ominous shadows grew taller on the walls, misshapen, monstrous, and flickering in the torchlight. Pulse thudding in her ears, she spun desperately, knowing they were too close. <em>

_ A rusted cart sat in the corner, her only option for survival. She sprinted, climbed in, balling herself up on the damp bottom. Her breaths wouldn't slow, no matter how hard she tried—the exertion and fear made them loud, ragged, noticeable. They would find her. They would find her. She held her breath. _

_ They came, with jabbering mouths and clanking armor. She tried to take in a small, quiet breath and almost choked on the rancid smell of them: blood, urine, sweat. She stopped breathing again, squeezing her eyes shut._

_ Then their voices were right there, right next to the cart. There was a dragging, a rustling, and then THUD as something was thrown in. She slowly opened her eyes, and the last remnants of her saved breath left her in a quiet whimper as she saw a body, her father's body. No, no, no, no…_

_ THUD. Another body, on top of her father's. Her mother. She sobbed silently, then jerked in shock as a body fell directly onto her. She knew him too. The bodies came faster, with their familiar faces, piled in, piling weight onto her. She tried to draw breath, but she couldn't breathe, not with the weight of the bodies on her, the weight of her grief. She gasped, drowning, drowning, until she collected enough air. Then she screamed, loud and long. Screaming, screaming, even knowing the Reapers would hear, knowing they would find her, even under all the bodies. They would kill her, but she screamed still. _

_ Hands—bloody, grimy, scarred—plunged towards her, reaching past damaged limbs and faces. "Clarke!" The Reaper growled. He had found her. He grabbed her shoulders, and she screamed, clawing at the faceless Reaper who was going to kill her. No, no, no she couldn't die, couldn't leave the 47 in the mountain, couldn't go without knowing about Raven, Finn, and Bellamy, she couldn't— _

"Clarke!"

Her eyes jerked open, and Clarke frantically looked around. It was dark, no torches lighting the room, which was made of metal, not stone. Hands still clasped her arms, but they were gentle. Calloused but clean. Her gaze found a face. _Bellamy._

He sat sideways on her bed, his hands holding hers against the mattress. As she drew in labored breaths, he let her go. Giving her a serious but soft look, he leaned away. She sucked in breaths, counting, trying to even them out. _Get it together, Clarke_. She wiped at her wet face, clearing it of tears and sweat, and pushed herself back to lean on the headboard. Then, a slice of dim white light cut across the room as the door slid open, and Octavia appeared.

"I came to see what was taking so long. What is going on?" She asked, her tone light but tinged with concern.

As Bellamy replied with a quiet "nothing," Clarke turned her head from the revealing light. _Get it together_. She felt pressure lift from the mattress as Bellamy rose to address his sister.

His voice dropped to a whisper as he and Octavia talked over the threshold. Clarke continued to work on her breathing: in through the nose, out through the mouth, all slowly. Once she regained regularity, she remembered Octavia mentioning the meteor shower at dinner last night. _Our first one on Earth—we should all see it together, you know?_ she had said. Clarke hadn't given her a straight answer, not wanting to contemplate missing sleep to see something so commonplace to them. She supposed Bellamy had drawn the short straw of coming to get her. _Lucky guy, look what he found for his trouble_.

The sound of the lock sliding closed drew her gaze back to the door. Bellamy leaned against it, looking at her. This time, she met his stare and held it.

"Nightmare," he stated simply, knowingly.

Clarke smoothed the sheets in her lap, looking down at the pilled material, then back up to Bellamy. "Yeah."

He nodded once, ran his fingers through his dark, messy hair, then asked, "The dropship rockets?"

She shook her head.

He looked down at his feet, sucked in a breath, then met her gaze again. "Finn?"

"No." She paused. "Not tonight."

His lips formed a tight smile, nodding again in understanding. In response, Clarke pulled her legs up, crossing them, then jerked her chin towards the end of her bed. Bellamy pushed off the door and came to her. His movements were stiff, like hers, bodies still not recovered from months of minimum nutrition, over-exhaustion, and immense stress. Sometimes, Clarke thought that they would never catch up on the things they had lost in the months since coming down to Earth.

_But what of the things you have found?_

She looked at Bellamy, now settled, silently and patiently waiting for her to begin, but she didn't know how. Fixing her gaze on the sheet in her lap, she found a loose thread, picked at it. Clarke wound it around her thumb, right at the base of her bitten down nail. She tugged the string, unwound it, then wound it again. She kept winding, unwinding, trying to find the words to start.

"I was in the tunnels again, after I had escaped Mount Weather," she said slowly. "I was alone, though, Anya wasn't with me. It was a maze down there, you know that, and I was lost. I kept running, searching for a way out, but it was dark, so dark, and cold, and I couldn't find my way. Then the Reapers came."

No more words came to her lips, and she twisted the thread between her fingers before winding it again. Next was the worst part (_the bodies_), always the same in their shocking terror and frighteningly near plausibility. Bellamy shifted at the end of the bed, and she looked up. His jaw clenched, fingers pressing into his thighs, like he could guess the next part. _He knows_, and it's almost a relief, that he can know before the words come, which makes them easier for Clarke to say.

"The Reapers were coming, and I couldn't get away, so I hid in one of the wheeled containers. They came, and I was so scared to even breathe. Then they started throwing bodies on me. Like they had when I had escaped with Anya. Only this time, I knew them." She paused, pulling harder on the thread. "My dad was first." Her breath caught in her throat, tears forming. "Then Wells. Finn was next, and my mom and Raven." The names tumbled off her lips as the matching bloody, lifeless faces flashed in her memory. "Jasper and Monty. Charlotte. Anya and Lincoln. Miller, Harper, Monroe, and Octavia. You."

The thread snapped in her fingers. Clarke threw it to the ground and wiped angrily at her tears. "I couldn't breathe, with the weight on me. I was suffocating. I couldn't get enough air, but I screamed anyways. I knew the Reapers would hear me, would drag me out and kill me. But all I could do was scream."

She bowed her head over her crossed legs, clamping a hand to her mouth. "You were all dead. All of you, always, you all are always dead, every time," she whispered.

Bellamy leaned forward, and reflexively she slid towards him. His arm slipped around her shoulders, and as she cried, he tightened his embrace.

"We're alive," he said, quietly, insistently.

Hand pressed to his chest, she could feel his heart beating, proof of his words. "We're alive," he repeated, vehemently. "We're alive."

Tears continued to track down her cheeks. Bellamy's arm slipped down her back, his hand coming to rest on her waist. In turn, she wrapped her arm around his chest, pulling herself closer, if that was possible.

"Screw you, we're not afraid," he whispered. Clarke let out a shaky laugh, pressing her face into his shoulder. Closing her eyes, she felt his chin come to rest on the top of her head, tucking her into him.

The two of them (_delinquents, rebels, leaders, survivors_) sat on the bed in the still, dark room, unmoving, intertwined, until the truth (_we're alive_) overpowered their fears. When Clarke's breathing finally steadied, she shifted to sit up on her own, leaning against the wall beside him, her arm almost touching his.

After a moment, the dark silence slowly filled with conversation: about plans to expand the med-bay, how much rain they were getting this summer, Lincoln's progress with the rehabilitated Reapers, and Monty's latest crop of experimental agro.

Abruptly, Clarke laughed and said, "Octavia is going to be mad we missed the meteor shower to talk camp logistics."

Bellamy shook his head in exasperation. "I don't know how she thinks the camp functions. She keeps telling me I worry too much, that we plan too much, but look at what we've come up against. Grounders, Reapers, Mountain Men, and let's not forget the goddamn weather that changes every five friggin' minutes."

"So you'd prefer making sure we survive this planet to watching some rocks burn up in the atmosphere?" Clarke asked, teasingly.

Bellamy smiled, but then slowly she saw his expression slip away, replaced with thin, tense lips and a tight jaw.

"No meteor showers for me," he said shortly.

She pictured it, silver streaks across the black-blue sky, an image they had only seen once before from Earth, but then it hadn't rocks burning up, it had been bodies, three hundred and twenty of them. It was always bodies with the two of them, following them, in day and in night, even after all these months, even after long stretches of respite from the nightmares, eventually the bodies still came back to haunt them.

Bellamy didn't say another word. Clarke dropped her head to rest on his shoulder, and they let the silence sit. This wordless understanding was their way, she knew, and had been since the dropship. It was a give and take, one of empathy and forgiveness for difficult decisions made, ones that were meant to protect those that they cared about, ones that ensured survival, ones that leaders like them were forced to make. So, they let the silence sit, trying so hard to ease their still-lingering guilt and grief.

"So," Clarke said finally. "How futile is it going to be to stop Monty and Jasper from making an even more lethal batch of moonshine for this year's Unity Day celebration?"

Bellamy chuckled. "Don't even go there."

"We have to at least get them to be more discrete about it. We're not alone down here anymore. The adults are definitely not going to approve of minors drinking," she lectured.

Letting out an exasperated breath, Bellamy asked, "It never ends, does it?"

Clarke's mouth quirked in amusement, and she opened her mouth to reply, but Bellamy cut her off.

"Yeah, I know, it's not easy being in charge."

She laughed (_of course he would know what she was going to say_), turning to look up at him. He glanced down, meeting her gaze, and grinned slightly. Clarke smiled in return at the amusement in his warm eyes, relieved and grateful that, at least for this one night, she wasn't alone with her ghosts.


	5. Unique Intimacy (Part V)

_Because (a) a Clarke & Bellamy drinking scene was needed, (b) the irony that both their parents got floated within 1-2 months of each other slays me, like they were both mourning at the same time on the Ark but didn't know it (ugh the feels), and (c) Bellamy realizing that he could have more than one kid and getting emotional about it just makes me all warm & fuzzy inside._

_Dust to Dust - The Civil Wars_

* * *

><p>As Bellamy sat on the floor of his living quarters, leaning up against his bed, cup of moonshine in hand, he still couldn't quite believe this was his room. It was large, for one. It was fairly well furnished too, as good as it could be on the ground. He suppose he had Wick to thank for that—guy was a genius when it came to design, even for mundane stuff like furniture. Raven sure did like to tease him about that, but Wick would simply grin and say it was just one more thing he did better than her.<p>

The size of the room or its things weren't what got to Bellamy though; it was the location. He had been placed in the guards' quarters, where the high-ranking members were housed. Bellamy himself didn't have an official placement with the guard, not after being thrown out as a cadet, and their time on the ground hadn't allowed for much discussion regarding his actual role. Jasper had dubbed him the guard's "Official Ground Ambassador." The name was ridiculous, but regrettably, it did sum up his job quite well. For all intents and purposes, he had been the go-to guy when the guard did pretty much anything, his training on the Ark and his experience on the ground making him a unique and necessary addition to their protective forces.

When Bellamy had received his housing assignment, he had figured it was just easier for Byrne and Miller to have him close by, in case they needed backup or a consult. Octavia had teased him, saying it was so they could keep a closer eye on the 'rebel king' (he had Murphy to thank for spreading around that unfortunate nickname). Whether it was for convenience or precaution, Bellamy planned on enjoying it for as long as it lasted, because at some point, he was going to outlive his usefulness and be bumped back down to standard quarters. Now that they had been on Earth almost a year, and the Arkers finally had as much ground experience as the 100, he felt that day was coming soon.

As excited shouts and laughter echoed from the hall outside, Bellamy poured himself another cup of moonshine. He supposed drinking by himself while the rest of the Arkers celebrated their first Unity Day on Earth constituted a pathetic picture, but at the moment, he did not care. Not on this day. Monty had been more than happy to provide him with a secret stash of booze, and Bellamy had no desire to be around the crowds of happy Arkers parading around in ridiculous costumes.

A few months ago, the Council had declared that, in keeping with tradition, there would be a themed dance on the evening of Unity Day. This year, though, it would not be just for the teens. It was to be a celebration for everyone, to mark their success at surviving on the ground this long. After much (in his opinion, stupid and trivial) debate, the theme of 'four seasons' had been decided upon, in honor of their new surroundings. Since then, Bellamy's friends (that was still a foreign concept to him, _friends_) had talked of nothing but their elaborate costumes and raucous plans for the evening. Each time, he rolled his eyes, grumbling about the frivolity of it all. Octavia would send him a sad smile, knowing where his discomfort really came from. She did not blame him for what had happened two years ago, never had, but other people's opinions on his actions had never weighed on him as much as his own judgements. Well, with one short, blonde exception.

Draining the booze-filled cup again, Bellamy set it down next to him on the ground with an audible clink. The hall was quiet. _They must have started the dancing_, he thought. As he reached for the thermos of moonshine again, a soft knock sounded at his door.

He sighed, disappointed that Octavia was wasting part of her night on him. "Go have fun, O. I'm fine."

"It's me, Bellamy," Clarke said, her voice muffled through the metal.

"Door's open." He didn't bother with trying to get rid of her. That was a fruitless task he had abandoned somewhere between finding the guns at the supply depot and bombing the Grounders.

He laughed, loudly, when she stepped into the room. A white dress (scavenged from Mount Weather, no doubt) hung loosely on her short frame, and a belt of silver reflective fabric from no-longer-needed space gear sat low on her hips. Silver paint arced out from the corner of her eye and spiraled across forehead and cheeks. Her hair was down, an unusual sight these days, but now atop her head sat—he couldn't friggin' believe it—a small metal crown.

"They got to me," she said, glancing up at the crown with a resigned smile.

"Ice princess?" He asked. She nodded, and Bellamy laughed again. "It suits you."

"I just wanted to stick a flower in my hair and call it a day, but you trying telling Octavia, Jasper, and Monty what to do."

"They listen to me."

"Bullshit," she said, plopping down on the floor across from him. "Once they got the crown from Wick, I didn't stand a chance."

"Pushover."

Clarke rolled her eyes in response, then glanced at the thermos. She stretched out her hand, and he passed it to her without hesitation.

After she took a sip (a rather large one), he asked, "Won't they be looking for you?"

"I let them dress me up. Going out was never part of the deal."

"What about your mother?"

"She won't mind." A dim look passed over Clarke's face, the same one he had seen her wear around Abby for the past month, one he hadn't seen since their first weeks on the ground.

As she took another (large) sip right from the thermos, Bellamy reached over to a drawer in the wall and pulled out a second cup. He slid it across the floor to her, saying, "Manners, Clarke."

She snorted but picked it up anyways, pouring herself a generous helping. Lifting the glass, she toasted him. "To Unity Day."

Bellamy didn't respond, just nodded and downed his remaining drink. He held out his cup, and she refilled it, along with her own. They took slow sips this time, listening to the occasional shout, laugh, or drumbeat drifting in from the party outside. Finally, Clarke stretched her legs out in front of her and said, "You must miss her."

Bellamy stared down at his cup, tracing his finger along the rim. Of course she would know about his mother. "Octavia tell you?"

"She was worried about you." Clarke paused. "It's been two years?"

"Yup." He kept looking into his cup. Two years (twenty four months, seven hundred thirty days, who knows how many hours) since that disastrous dance, when he had gotten his sister put in the Skybox and his mother floated. He took another drink. Bellamy had no interest in pity, especially from Clarke, but, like always, he underestimated her.

"They floated my dad two years ago last month." Her words came out loud in the quiet room, laced with sorrow and empathy. Now he looked at her, and she smiled, a quick, sad one.

"He would have loved it down here. The space, the freedom. And the forest, he was always talking about what he would build down here. He was an engineer," she added, and Bellamy nodded. He knew that. He didn't know when he had acquired that information, but these days, it seemed like he knew everything about Clarke.

"His coworkers used to tease him, saying wood couldn't compare to metal, so why bother designing something with a weaker material? Dad would just laugh, and say the challenge was the fun of it. He drew designs all the time, crazy machines and huge houses. He drew a dollhouse for me once." She smiled again, a happy, misty one this time.

"So you got your talent from you dad."

"Yeah." She took another swig of moonshine before recounting more stories about her dad, about watching soccer games with Wells and Jaha, about birthday parties, about her father's encouragement of her hideous foray into photography when she was twelve. Sipping in between stories, she slowly lost her smile as she drank more.

"My mother wanted to make a memorial for him down here," she said abruptly. "She suggested having a small ceremony on the anniversary last month, but I just, I couldn't, not with her. I forgave her a long time ago, but still—I couldn't, not yet."

Silence crept over them again, and they refilled their cups a third (fourth?) time. They continued taking small sips, until Clarke drained hers suddenly and said, "I miss him, so much. And I hate him sometimes." The words hung there for a minute, hot and painful, before she continued, her voice strong. "I hate that he made that video, that he risked his life. I hate that he put the needs of the Ark above my mom, above me. I understand why he did it, every minute since I've been on the ground I understand it more and more, but I still hate that he did."

As she choked up, Bellamy took another gulp of moonshine. He knew what Clarke was doing, what she always did: talked about her pain to soothe his. God, she knew him, knew him so well, knew his sorrow, his guilt, his anger, because she had felt those too. She knew he wouldn't talk about his, so, sitting there glowing in white and silver and gold, she let her own hurt out instead.

"I love Octavia," he said, slowly, haltingly. "But sometimes, I wish—" He couldn't even finish the sentence; he loved his sister that much.

"She was selfish. Your mother." Her tone wasn't harsh, or accusatory, just honest, clinical.

"Yeah. She was." Bellamy glanced at Clarke, at her serious, kind eyes, and he sighed. "And she wasn't."

They poured another round, and he found that once he had started talking, he couldn't stop. Clarke was good at that, helping him siphon the poison from his past, allowing him to see his history, and himself, with a more neutral perspective.

He spoke about his mother's talent with a needle and thread, how she could sew almost anything, how she had been commissioned to help preserve the twelve flags at only sixteen years old. He told Clarke that his mother used to recount stories to him when he was younger, tales of mighty kings and valiant warriors, of epic battles and fallen empires, a task he had taken over for Octavia (the stories were where he had gotten her name, but that Clarke already knew). He described his experiences at school, and his obsession with reading, and the make-believe games he used to play with his sister. He talked about his mother's laugh, how it was the only loud thing about her, how he heard her when Octavia laughed. He smiled at that, thinking how lucky he was to hear his sister laugh, and laugh often.

"Another?" Clarke interrupted, shaking the thermos at him.

Bellamy held out his cup again, not knowing what number refill they were on and not particularly caring. His cheeks flared with warmth and his fingers tingled, so it must have been quite a few. Though it was hard to tell with Monty's moonshine, the lethality of a batch always varying. Clarke tipped the thermos to pour but missed his cup, and alcohol splashed onto the floor.

"Lightweight," he murmured as he wiped at the spill with his sleeve.

"You moved the cup!" She exclaimed.

"Did not."

"I'm a doctor. I have steady hands. And you were drinking long before I was."

Bellamy looked up at her face flushed from the booze, bright blue eyes blinking lazily at him. He grinned. "One: you're not officially a doctor yet. Two: I can drink you under the table anytime."

She sat up on her knees in indignation, crown wobbling at the sudden movement, and held up a pointed finger. "One: I am damn good doctor, official or not, kept you idiots alive down here, thank you very much. Two: you're on." Clarke grabbed the drink from his hand and sloshed much more than a shot's worth of moonshine into their cups.

"I don't think this works if we've already been drinking," he warned, taking the cup anyway.

"Trying to back out, I see. I will accept a forfeit, but only if you tell everyone I beat you in a drinking contest."

"Everyone? Should I announce it at the next camp meeting?"

Clarke snorted. "Definitely not, that would be embarrassing for both of us. No, just tell the kids."

He looked at her in disbelief (he could not believe she had just said that), and she cracked up, throwing her head back in laughter, twisted blonde strands of hair swaying with the movement. Bellamy couldn't help but join in. It was absurd really, or it should have been, but the idea of them as parents to the 100 was not as far-fetched to him as it should seem. Clarke and he were still the ones they came to for direction and advice, for dispute settlements and happy news. In all the ways that mattered, the two of them _were_ still in charge.

"Well, at least we're prepared if either of us ever have actual kids of our own," she mused, her giggles subsiding slowly.

Bellamy snorted. "I better already be prepared. I've been O's parent since I was six. If I'm not ready after that, I never will be."

Clarke titled her head, smiling. "You're going to be an excellent dad, Bellamy. You've done so well with Octavia, there's no doubt you'd be fine."

He swallowed loudly at the sincerity in her words, not knowing how to respond. Her lips twitched, and she shook her head, eyes dancing with kindness as she humored his awkward silence.

Something clattered to the ground, and Bellamy watched in amusement as Clarke scrambled clumsily for her crown, which had come loose while she was laughing. As she settled it back onto her head, hair slightly mussed, she asked, "So, why the name Octavia?"

"She used to ask me that all the time. Honestly, it was the first girl's name I could come up with. But from what I remember from the stories, it fits her, I think."

"Did you have other choices in mind, later?"

"When she was being difficult," he said, chuckling, because Octavia had never been an easy child, always wanting more than he could give her. "I would tell her I should've named her Cleopatra. She hated that. But no, not really."

"Not even one?"

Bellamy paused, thinking back to his favorite stories, especially the ones Octavia had loved too. "Maybe Victoria. Or Kennedy."

Clarke wrinkled her nose, and Bellamy laughed. "Okay, maybe not. Anastasia? Miriam?"

"Mm, I guess you got lucky with Octavia. Not that those are bad names, they just don't suit her. Though you seem to have plenty of options for your own kid. Poor girl."

"I'll have to choose a name carefully, then, seeing as I only get one shot at it."

"Naming a kid? Yeah, you typically only do it once."

"No, I meant one shot at having a kid."

Clarke looked at him, brow furrowed, a puzzled look in her eyes. _Why was she confused, she knew the Council's rule, only one child per_—and then it dawned on him. No more Ark, no more capacity concerns, no more resources to worry about. His child could have a sibling, could have many siblings, could have cousins. The last thought he was not ready for (Lincoln had better kept his hands to himself, though that dropship had probably already launched), but it thrilled him anyways.

"Wonderful, isn't it?" Clarke said. She smiled at him, warmly, contentedly, and she it _was_ wonderful.

He shook his head, still astounded. "I can't wrap my mind around it."

"That may be due to the copious amounts of booze we just drank," Clarke teased.

"That you just drank."

"You matched me cup for cup."

"So I guess that means our drinking contest is a draw?"

Clarke sighed in defeat. "Fine." She yawned, then looked at her dad's watch. "It's late."

As she tried to stand, she wobbled, grabbing at the wall for support. "Goddamnit, Monty," she mumbled as she headed towards the door.

Bellamy scrambled up after her as she tugged uselessly at the handle. "Clarke, you can barely stand. I say your chances of making it back to your room are slim."

"Have go to bed," she murmured. "My head's spinning."

"Stay here."

She paused momentarily. Bellamy could see her weighing her options, and he sighed. "It's not like we haven't done it before. C'mon, you can take the bed. I've got a camp roll I can sleep on."

"I'm not kicking you out of your bed when I'm the one who interrupted your night of getting drunk alone." She turned back to him, giving him her serious stare, which was not quite as intimidating when she was swaying as she stood. "Which, by the way, is not a healthy habit."

"Noted. Now are you staying or not?"

Clarke bit her lip, let out a breath, and then said, "Yeah. But we share the bed."

"Clarke—"

"It's not like we haven't done it before," she retorted in a singsong voice.

They had, in those horrible days before the rescue of the 47, when the two of them didn't have time to be apart, needed to be together to plan for every contingency and every danger to their plan. Sleep had come rarely, and neither of them had seen the use of spending what few hours they did get to rest on the floor. It had been almost a year since then, though, and it just seemed odd to him that it would be an option now.

"You're thinking too much, Bellamy."

Whether it was the excessive amounts of ingested moonshine, or the exhaustion suddenly descending on him, or the fact that there was a quiet, secret part of his mind that missed lying next to her, he nodded toward the bed. "You win, princess."

Clarke nodded once, emphatically, taking her crown off before giving him a drowsy smile as she crawled onto the mattress. "Always do."

He chuckled and slipped into bed beside her, pulling the blanket over them. "Just for tonight though."

Clarke gave a soft hum in response, already on the brink of sleep. Bellamy closed his eyes, smiling as she accidentally poked his side with her elbow, which used to annoy him because _goddamn_ were they pointy, but he supposed sharing a bed was the least he could do for her tonight, after what she had done for him. Drinking alone on a night like this was pathetic, but drinking alone with a friend (though that word seemed entirely inadequate for what she was to him), well, that was something entirely different.

* * *

><p><em>Guys, this may have been my favorite one to write so far...but still in the midst of finishing up this piece so that may change hah.<em>

_Thanks for all the reads, favorites, reviews, and subscribes. You guys keeping me going :)_


	6. Unique Intimacy (Part VI)

_Because something about Clarke helping Bellamy see his own self-worth does me in every time, and, oh yeah *spoiler alert* it was about time these two kissed._

_Fire & Rain - Mat Kearney_

* * *

><p>Bellamy hacked at the log in front of him, violently stripping the bark from it. He was unintentionally taking chunks of wood out too, which the engineer in charge of building would reprimand him for later, but right now he didn't particularly care. He needed a physical outlet for his frustration, hence the sharp, sloppy slashes. Twice already Bellamy had almost missed slicing his knee with his messy strokes. Though he knew he should make his cuts more slowly, he was pissed off, so damn caution. If he ended up in the medbay, the worst he would get is a few painful stitches and lecture from Clarke or Abby about being more careful, which he could handle.<p>

What he couldn't handle was the changes going on in the Guard. He knew this day had been coming, the one where his unofficial status would come of notice. Still, he hadn't guessed being overlooked would hurt this much. Guards younger them him were getting promotions, moved up to the quarters where he was temporarily located, and it was only a matter of time before they kicked him out. He had held out hope until two days ago when he had stopped by the medbay looking for Clarke. She hadn't been there, but Chancellor Griffin had accidentally left her tablet out, and on it was a list of names for room reassignments. 'Blake, Bellamy' had been at the top of the list that included all the new guard recruits. They were going to make him go through training again, at twenty-four friggin' years old, like the other adults hadn't been looking to him for guidance since landing on the ground. So, he was pissed off, and taking it out on the log seemed like a better idea than taking it out on Kane, or the Chancellor, or anyone who happened to look at him the wrong way.

When the knife finally connected with his knee, he cried out, too frustrated to care about people noticing.

"Damn it," he grunted, flinging the bloody blade to the ground. Aside from the throbbing pain, he was pissed that he'd have to find someone else to patch his pants again. Octavia had warned him she wasn't going to be his seamstress if he kept being 'so goddamn irresponsible', as she had fondly but firmly put it. Ironic, really, for her to call him irresponsible, even in jest.

As he looked down at the rust-colored stain now steadily seeping across the fabric, he realized the whole pair might be unsalvageable. Feeling his anger—at his clumsiness, at the stain, at the Guard and their exclusiveness—rise to flame across his cheeks, he stood up, careful to avoid weight on the injured leg. Hobbling as best he could towards the medbay, he came across Miller who looked with wide eyes at the bloody knee.

"Jesus, what did you do?" His friend asked, moving to slip and arm around him for support.

"Fucked it up, what else?" Bellamy responded dryly, a bit too much bitterness in his tone.

Miller slid him a careful look before saying, "Been there plenty."

Bellamy laughed at that, limping along with his friend. Miller's name had been on the list as well—along with some number of others from the 47—a small silver lining that even a sergeant's son hadn't been favored for immediate appointment to the Guard. It had eased Bellamy's outrage, but not by much, considering he had already had formal training where Miller had not, at least not from the Guard.

"Well, I usually do it more often and on a grander scale than most," Bellamy replied as they crossed the threshold into the Ark.

Miller sent him an amused grin. "And don't I know it."

Bellamy grinned back, his smile only fading when he heard Clarke's irritated voice call out from the medbay entrance.

"You two idiots are dripping blood everywhere. Get inside."

As she stormed off to grab supplies, Bellamy shuffled over to one of the makeshift cots, shucked off his nearly ruined pants, and fell onto the bed.

Miller muttered, "Looks like the princess is in a crappy mood today. Wouldn't want to be you right now." With a quick nod of farewell, he left the room.

Clarke didn't say a word when she returned, just threw some bandages onto the bed next to Bellamy. Without warning, she leaned down and pressed a moonshine-soaked cloth to his knee, causing him to hiss loudly.

"Seems your bedside manner hasn't improved since the dropship," he bit out between teeth clenched in pain.

Clarke glared up at him, brow tense. "Given that this is your third injury in the last two weeks, seems your grasp of responsibility hasn't improved since the dropship either," she retorted sharply.

Clearly she had been having a bad day—her face was pinched with frustration and exhaustion, hair haphazardly falling out of its ponytail, and her shoulders hunched with tension—and she did always seemed extra put out when he came in with an injury. Still, Bellamy couldn't stop his anger from rising at her choice of words, not when so many others—Octavia, the Guard—seemed to be thinking along the same lines.

"Screw you, Clarke," he spat out.

Her eyes flashed as she straightened up. "Maybe I'd have better bedside manner if my patients weren't so rude."

"Maybe I wouldn't be so rude if you didn't order me around—you know you're just mother's little assistant, so no need to act like you're in charge here. Maybe Jackson should be the one stitching me up."

"Asshole," Clarke hissed as she chucked the bloody rag at his chest. "Stitch up your own goddamn wound."

She turned on her heel, striding out of the medbay, blonde hair swinging choppily at her shoulders. As Bellamy watched her go, he groaned out a frustrated sigh. It wasn't Clarke's fault that he had to go through training again, or that she got to do what she was good at without anyone questioning her trustworthiness. Regardless, her comfortability and authority in the medbay, combined with both their bad moods, had set him off. He should apologize, but the stinging gash on his knee kept him from chasing after her, so he picked up the needle and thread and began sewing his skin back together, fully intending to find her later.

* * *

><p>It had been two days since their fight, and Bellamy still hadn't gotten the chance to apologize. It hadn't helped that Clarke seemed to be avoiding him, nor that several new faces had appeared in the Guard's weekly meetings for higher ranks. Indignation and frustration were the norm for Bellamy now; he could feel it simmer under his skin, making him irritable and short with everyone, even Octavia. She had tried to ask him what was wrong, but whining to his sister wasn't going to help him feel better. So, he had signed up for a three-day hunting trek, hoping the time and distance from the camp would help him come to terms with the changes. No matter how unfair he thought they were, Bellamy was so goddamn tired of fighting what people thought of him that it didn't seem worth it to plead his case to Kane.<p>

As he prepared to head out with the group, though, Sergeant Miller caught him at the gate.

"Kane wants to see you."

"I'm headed out on a hunt. Is it urgent?"

"You're to report to the Council, that's all he said. I'm to bring you to him." He turned to the hunting group and nodded for them to go ahead. "Follow me, Blake."

The gate clanged shut, and Bellamy, grinding his teeth, trailed after his friend's father with reluctant, angry steps. The sergeant didn't make conversation, and Bellamy's stomach dropped. This was it; he was getting the heave-ho.

The sinking feeling increased when he stepped into the Council room and saw not just Kane, but Chancellor Griffin, Major Byrne, and even Clarke assembled around the table. Clarke raised her eyebrows when she noticed his dark mood. Surprisingly, given her recent avoidance of him, she flicked an exasperated half-smile at him in response, as if chiding him for his negativity. Scowling more intensely before remembering everyone else in the room, he swore he heard her let out an amused huff at his quick correction to a more neutral expression.

"Mr. Blake," Kane said, catching Bellamy's attention. Out of habit, Bellamy straightened up, feet hip-width apart and arms clasped behind his back. Kane smiled at the movement before saying, "You've no doubt noticed that we've been making some changes to the guard recently. As of finally being almost a year on the ground, we feel it is the right time to start shifting responsibilities, so as to put those who deserve it in the best positions."

Bellamy tensed, trying to keep his nastier emotions from playing across his face. If they thought he didn't friggin' deserve those responsibilities, not after all he has done for them, well, they wouldn't get to see him flinch. Behind Kane, he watched Clarke bite her lip much in the way she did when she was trying not to scold him, so he just took a deep breath, letting Kane continue. Best get his demotion over and done with, so he could get well and drunk to forget this whole mess.

"You are a unique case, Bellamy, because of your training in the Guard on the Ark and your experience and leadership on the ground. In trying to find where to place you in our new ranks, it was brought to our attention that you had never been officially appointed to be a Guard, which has been an oversight on our part."

_Here is comes_, Bellamy thought, and he clenched his hands behind him, resisting the urge to punch the nearest wall.

"An egregious oversight, considering how valuable you have been to the Guard, and frankly, to the community as a whole. That is why we'd like to officially approve your promotion from Cadet to Guardsman. Something long overdue, in the Guard's and the Council's opinion."

Bellamy's lips parted in surprise, and he sucked in a sharp, disbelieving breath. He finally noticed Kane was smiling more widely now, as was Abby. Major Byrne was actually looking at him kindly, a stark change from her usual stern expression. Clarke outright beamed at him.

"Furthermore," Abby said, stepping forward to Kane's side. "We are beginning to assemble a new set of guard recruits and need someone to train them, someone to be officially in charge of cadet recruitment and education. It has been firmly argued that you are the best person for the position. So," Abby paused briefly, reaching back to retrieve something from the table, "do you accept?"

In her outstretch open hand rested an officer pin, shining in the fluorescent light of the Council meeting room. Bellamy hesitated to take it, expecting her to snatch it back, expecting Kane to rescind his promotion. He stood there frozen—_like an idiot_, as Octavia would say if she could see him now —because he was scared to finally get what he had always wanted.

"Bellamy," Clarke said, and he jerked his gaze up from the pin to look at her. Bright blue eyes dancing with amusement and pride, she prodded, "Your answer?"

"Yeah, I mean yes, yes ma'am," he said in a huge, hurried breath, turning his attention back to Abby. He heard Sergeant Miller chuckle behind him as he stepped forward to take the pin. Clutching it between clammy fingers, he ran his thumb over the etched design again and again, to remind himself this was real. "I'd be honored."

"We're glad to have you, son," Kane concluded, clapping Bellamy on the shoulder as he passed by. "We'll meet tomorrow to talk about plans."

The rest of the adults smiled in congratulations as they followed, with Sergeant Miller reaching forward to shake Bellamy's hand before leaving.

"Got big shoes to fill, Guardsman Blake," he said, nodding towards Kane's retreating back. "Used to be his old post, way back in the day. But from what I've seen, and from what my son has told us, you're more than up to the task. And whatever positions may come after it." Miller glanced back at Kane, raising his eyebrows meaningfully. "Good luck."

Bellamy ran his hand through his hair, reeling from the revelation that he was on the same career track as Kane, before he realized Clark had stayed behind with him.

"Not what you expected?" She asked teasingly, arching her brow and smirking as she walked forward to lean one hip against the round beaten-up Council table.

When an equally teasing answer teetered on his lips, he suddenly drew it back. No doubt Clarke was expecting a sarcastic response from him; her face all but said it. Yet in this moment, when only a second before her eyes had expressed such pride and confidence in him, Bellamy couldn't bring himself to mock what he had been feeling.

"No," he said softly. "No, it wasn't. Not at all."

Her smile turned wry and kind as she said, "I got that feeling after the other day in the medbay."

"Yeah," Bellamy drawled. "I'm sorry about that. I was a little tense."

Clarke just stared at him, and he laughed before amending, "Okay, a lot tense. I had seen your mother's tablet list off new living arrangements. I was lumped in with the new recruits, so I thought they were going to make me go through training again, because I had been thrown out as a cadet, and I just, I lost it, I guess. I never even imagined they'd want _me_ to be in charge."

Embarrassed, he reached up to rub the back of his neck, looking away from her. When he looked back up again, her expression had softened. Pushing off the table, Clarke drew nearer until she was right there in front of him. They were so close that she had to tip her face up to look at him, blue eyes wide and warm.

"Don't you know by now? You're a good man, Bellamy Blake," she whispered, then stretched up to press her lips against his.

They were soft, and warm, and gentle, and they took Bellamy completely by surprise. Clarke's hands came to rest gently at his waist, almost hovering, unsure. When she pulled back from the kiss, her eyes had a quiet, reserved steadiness in them. Her cheeks flushed pink in anticipation, but there was no embarrassment, just a bit of apprehension in her face.

"Not what you were expecting?" She asked softly.

He tipped his forehead down to meet hers, closing his eyes. "Not at all."

This time he made the first move, bringing his lips down to hers. He started slow, savoring the taste of her. As her body shifted restlessly against his, though, his lips moved more roughly, demanding more from her. He barely heard the soft ping of the officer pin hitting the floor when his hands went to clutch at her waist, pulling her even closer. Now, he kissed her like he should have before, like he had wanted to for a while, with a hunger and a need, carefully but powerfully. Her lips fell open easily under his, her body bowing into him as he wrapped his arms around her middle. As he tugged Clarke closer, she stumbled a bit, having been her tiptoes. Bellamy smiled mid-kiss, which felt a bit awkward, and he felt her huff a laugh against his mouth. Then she slid her hands up his chest and neck, running her fingers through his hair, setting his body on fire. He resumed kissing her again, even deeper this time, a desperate, building want crawling up his back as he clutched her even tighter to him. Clarke hummed in approval, her arms thrown around his neck, her chest pressed against his.

When his fingers danced under the hem of her shirt, brushing the soft skin at her waist, she pulled back. She didn't go far, though, just enough to let them breathe.

"Bell," she sighed, biting her now very red lip. "We're in the Council room."

Blowing out an unsteady, heavy breath, he tipped his head back and chuckled, tightening his grip on her waist. "Yeah. I know." He paused, looked down at her, a mischievous grin creeping onto his face as he asked, "Am I horrible for not caring?"

She laughed, a light, joyous tinkling of a sound that echoed in the empty room. Her cheeks reddened even more as she replied, "Am _I_ horrible for not caring that you don't care?"

This time he laughed, leaning in for another kiss, which she began to give willingly, hungrily—_lord, she would be the death of him_—but they startled apart when clanking footsteps approached.

"Clarke?" Jackson asked, eyes wide at their just-abandoned proximity.

"Yeah?" She replied, her voice a pitch higher and more unsteady than usual.

Bellamy pressed his lips together in amusement at her discomfort. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Clarke's hand twitch, a sure sign she was repressing the urge to smack him.

"Your mother needs you in medical."

"Be right there," she said hurriedly, waving the assistant off.

With an embarrassed last look, Jackson turned back down the hall. Before Bellamy could blink, Clarke gave him a one last, quick kiss and headed towards the exit. As she reached the door, a dull panic seized his chest, like if she walked out it would be as if none of this had happened.

"Clarke?" He called out suddenly, his voice hoarse.

She turned in the doorway, looking at him fondly. "Yeah?"

"See you later?" The question was vague but weighted with meaning, and Bellamy felt his throat catch as he waited for her answer.

"Yeah, Bell," she said softly, sending him a soft, intimate smile. "You'll see me later."

He stood watching the doorway long after Clarke had gone, enjoying the warmth in his chest she had left behind. Finally, he bent down and picked up the dropped officer pin and exited the Council room. As he walked back to the camp yard to find a new task for the day, he turned the pin over and over in his hand, smiling, surprised that for being something he had wanted for so long, it was only the second-best thing he had received that day.

* * *

><p>Night had fallen, but the camp yard still bustled as the Arkers gathered around crackling fires for dinner. Conversation and laughter echoed through the chill air, with the quiet rustling of dry leaves falling from half-bare branches filling in the brief snatches of silence. Bellamy had taken a seat with a small group of the 47, not saying much, just exchanging wry glances with Raven and Lincoln or chuckling under his breath at Monty and Jasper. As he took a last bite, he felt the log he was sitting on wobble as someone plopped down beside him.<p>

"Well, c'mon, man, where is it?"

Bellamy glanced up from his dinner at a grinning Miller.

"Where is what?" He asked, tossing a bone from his plate into the fire at their feet. It popped in the heat, shooting sparks in the grass that he quickly stomped out.

"The pin, Bellamy. Or should I say Officer Blake?"

Bellamy shot him an exasperated glance as the conversation around them died.

"Woah, seriously?" Monroe asked, raising her eyebrows. Then she grinned widely and added, "About damn time he was told. I thought Jasper over there was going to blow it before the Council could make the announcement."

Bellamy just stared at her in surprise. "You guys knew?"

"Who do you think lobbied for your appointment, moron?" Raven retorted, stoking the fire with a stray branch. Looking at his still-shocked face, she snorted. "C'mon Blake, by now you should know we like you." She poked the fire again, rolling her eyes at the growing smirk on his face, and amended, "Only a little bit, mind you. Better to have our jackass train the newbies than some ladder-climbing Alpha-sector jackass."

He chuckled at that. "Thanks, Reyes."

Raven nodded her head in acknowledgement, a small smile lurking at the corners of her lips.

Turning to Miller, Bellamy murmured, "Earlier your dad did mention something about you talking to the Council about me." He held out his hand to Miller, who grasped firmly it in return. "Thank you, it means a lot."

"You're welcome, because you deserve it, and I look forward to serving under you again. For the record though, as happy as I was to give my input, it wasn't my idea."

Bellamy watched Miller's gaze drift to another fire, where Clarke was laughing with Jackson and her mother, a piece of bread clutched in her small hand. The firelight twisted into her blonde curls, making them shimmer despite the dim light of the evening. She chucked a chunk of the roll at her smiling mother, then laughed again, her cheeks pinking with amusement. Bellamy heard the laugh, even as far away as he was, because that sound was precious and so devastatingly earned that he had memorized it weeks ago. He took nothing on the ground for granted, not when it had been so unkind to them for so long.

"Dude," Miller drawled, snapping Bellamy's attention back to his friend who was now smirking unabashedly.

"Shut it," Bellamy growled, chucking the rest of his leftovers into the fire and placing his plate in the collection bin behind him.

Miller just chuckled and gave Bellamy a quick slap on the back. In return, Bellamy murmured a quiet 'good night' before standing and walking towards Clarke. Before he was even halfway to her group, she turned, as if she had sensed his presence. Excusing herself, she got up and met him in the middle of the dark yard.

"Hey," she said softly. In fact, everything about her seemed softer now, which was utterly misleading because Bellamy knew she was pure steel, through and through.

"Hey," he breathed back.

She laughed quietly when he didn't say anything else, just raised her eyebrows and asked, "Did you need something?"

"Take a walk with me?"

Clarke nodded in assent and started off down the path towards the camp perimeter, with Bellamy following only a half-step behind.

"You're not wearing your pin," she observed.

"Miller said the same thing. Does everybody really care that much? It just happened today."

"Yeah, we care," she said mildly. "We did put quite a bit of time in figuring out how to best persuade the Council to assign you the position."

Bellamy hummed in amusement. "I heard something of the sort. Any idea about who the ring leader was?"

Clarke just dipped her head, a smile hovering at her mouth.

Bellamy leaned in a bit closer to her and whispered, "Thank you."

"Well, your merits speak for themselves. We just made sure the Council heard them at the right time. Besides, you may not be thanking me in a few months, after you've been working, sleeping, eating, _breathing_ with those idiots 24/7. Like the dropship, all over again."

Her grin couldn't get any wider, and Bellamy groaned. "Just what did you get me into?"

"Nothing you can't handle," she responded cheekily.

"Mmhmm," Bellamy said. Then he grabbed her hand, swung her around into him, and swiftly backed her into a pole supporting one of their rampart defenses. He kissed her soundly, slipping his cold hands under her jacket to run them up her sides. She sucked in a breath at the chill, returning the favor by sliding her fingers beneath his shirt, then tucking her hands into his pockets and jerking his hips tightly against hers.

Bellamy pulled away slightly, breathing unevenly, and rasped, "Clarke, we're outside. Your mother is right around the corner."

"Am I horrible for not caring?" She said, eyes sparkling with humor as she repeated his words from earlier.

Bellamy thunked his forehead against her shoulder and groaned again. She laughed into his curls, her breath tickling him. When she kissed the pulse point beneath his ear, he straightened up to face her, giving her a mockingly stern glare. "Not helping," he murmured in a low, rough voice.

Clarke just smiled, biting her lip, before sliding her hand into his and tugging him back to the path. "Then let's go back."

Bellamy resisted for a second, because, well, despite the chance of being discovered, he was seriously considering staying right here in the shadows to savor the feel of her skin under his fingertips, to savor the time alone with Clarke. They didn't get much of that, and Bellamy still felt he had to cling too desperately to whatever good luck he did get.

Though as she stepped out from their hiding place, the camp's fires lighting up her features again, the desperation to stay in this moment didn't claw at him like he had expected. Instead, a calm descended over him as he looked at her smiling face, realizing for the first time that maybe, this good thing was here to stay.

So he let her pull him back to the path, keeping his fingers stay intertwined with hers as they returned to the rest of the camp. Right before they reached their friends, she pulled her hand from his. His heartbeat stuttered for a second because _was she embarrassed to be seen with him like that?_ But she just kept smiling, reaching up to his collar and attaching his officer pin.

He threw her a puzzled look. "Where did you—"

"Your pocket," she said, appearing equal parts sheepish and pleased with herself.

"Ah, I see. Kissing me was only a ploy to get me to put it on."

"Hush and c'mon," she replied, clasping her hand with his again.

Surprisingly, their friends didn't say a word when then approached. Raven raised her eyebrows and Octavia couldn't stop grinning smugly, but not a single smartass comment was uttered. There were a few teasing looks when they sat down against the same log and Bellamy put his arm around Clarke's shoulder and she leaned into him. Still, not a word.

Then Jasper appeared and, upon seeing them, promptly dropped the three cups of moonshine he was struggling to carry, spraying everyone nearby, his mouth open as wide as his shocked eyes.

"Holy crap! When's the wedding?"

Raven booed at his antics while the rest of the group laughed and groaned.

"Really, Jasper?" Monty asked, shaking his head.

"What? I'm just so happy for you guys!" He shuffled over and leaned down to give them a very awkward hug, almost landing on his butt for his trouble.

"Thanks, Jasper," Clarke said, laughing a bit as he scooted back to sit by Monty.

"Don't encourage him," Bellamy whispered teasingly into her hair.

Clarke just turned and gave him a long kiss, prompting a splutter from Jasper and some stray claps and a whistle or two from the others.

"What was that you said?" She asked, poking him in the side.

"Nothing, princess," Bellamy replied, laughing in defeat and tightening his arm around her to pull her closer.

For Bellamy, the night passed much as others had recently. Miller, Monroe, and Octavia told stories of their treks to explore the world around them. Monty chatted about the new medicinal formulas he and Nyko were developing. Jasper gesticulated widely with his hands, words spilling over his lips faster than he could think, interrupting everyone but never fully annoying anyone because his enthusiasm was just so endearing. Raven contributed her typical caustic commentary, accompanied by an eyeroll or pursed mouth that were no longer quite as menacing as intended, rather driven by grudging fondness.

Clarke laughed like she always did, loudly and fully, but this time Bellamy felt her move with it, her warm body vibrating against hers. Her hair still shone in the firelight, but now he got to run his hand through it, twisting the strands between his fingers. Tonight, her smiles were so much brighter because he got to see them up close.

They had kissed, and tonight she was sitting in his arms, but their friends were still the same delinquents and the moon still sat millions of miles away in the place where they used to live. His world had shifted but not shattered, the last piece falling into place not with a loud crash but rather quietly, subtly, naturally.

Bellamy placed a kiss against Clarke's temple, his heartbeat soft but steady, finally knowing what a good life could be on the ground.

* * *

><p><em>I'm so sorry this took so long to post, but it was a monster of a chapter and it took me forever to get it right BUT now we are onto some of the fluffier stuff and I can't wait :)<em>

_Can't promise a quick turn around for the next chapter, but I am so excited to get to it so, I am working hard to get it up as fast as I can!_

_Love and thanks to all you readers 3_


	7. Intense Chemistry (Part VII)

_Because Clarke can be a little tightly wound, and although Bellamy is often the cause of that stress, he is also the best person to relieve it._

* * *

><p>At the warm hand on her lower back, Clarke startled, causing the bandages in her hands to fall to the floor.<p>

"Hey, didn't mean to scare you," Bellamy murmured from behind.

"You didn't," Clarke replied slowly, bending down with a huff to collect the unraveled supplies. When she stood back up, she was nearly chest-to-chest with Bellamy, not realizing he had been so close. She sucked in a surprised breath. With a chuckle, he stepped back, shrugging his shoulders in another apology.

"Sorry, I was trying to avoid getting in your way. Guess that backfired," he added with a smile.

Clarke hummed briskly as she inspected the bandages for dirt. Deeming them still clean enough, she re-rolled them and stacked them back on the shelf.

Turning, she asked, "Did you need something?"

"Just wanted to see when you were going to dinner."

"I'll be done here in a few minutes."

"Good," Bellamy said, reaching out and squeezing her arm. "Then I'll see you out there."

"See you," Clarke responded as he walked off, her upper arm still tingling pleasantly from the pressure of his hand.

Continuing on with her supply inventory, Clarke let her mind wander, thinking of Bellamy's affinity for human contact, lately hers in particular. Sure, back at the dropship, and during their first days at Camp Jaha, she had noticed his physical interaction with others, mostly his sister and the younger kids. He doled out a pat on the arm or a ruffle to the head, sometimes a tweak of the nose in teasing or a clap on the back for support. Even earlier on, in their roughest days, he had always expressed his emotions physically: a shove to the shoulders or a jerk on the arm. Still, she could not quite recall the feel of him touching her until after they had become something more than co-leaders and friends.

Now, though, it was all she could think about. He was constantly touching her. In private, it was his fingers teasingly brushing across skin as they shucked off clothes, palms pressed against her hips as he backed her into the wall, lips dragging down her neck as they made love. Those touches were intense, purposeful, driven by desire. In public, his touches were merely a reflex. A casual peck of the lips in goodbye, a squeeze on the shoulder for hello, a knock of the elbow for attention, a hand against the lower back to say 'I'm here'.

Clarke, however, couldn't seem to separate the two types. It didn't matter where or how he touched, it always sent a low vibration through her, stirring up all kinds of wants and needs. Her skin sang, and her chest tightened, because it was Bellamy and she had never known this kind of love before. These days, as often as he touched her, both behind closed doors and out in the open, she was like a string wound too tight. The slightest brush of a hand or nudge of a knee was enough to set off the fire kindling inside her.

That igniting spark startled her every time; she had bumped into tables, knocked over Raven's tools, stepped into Monty's piles of plants, even tripped over her own feet in response to the warmth his touch generated inside her. The dropped bandages were just the latest casualty.

Rolling her shoulders, Clarke tried to shake off the memory of Bellamy's warm hands on her back and arm as she locked up the inventory. Night greeted her as she walked out of the Ark towards the food line, not helping her thoughts any, because the dark was where his touches were most potent. Distracted, she moved along as the line shuffled forward, trying to concentrate on _not_ remembering how last night Bellamy had run his hands up her calves, her thighs, traced his fingers over her hipbones, dragging them across her stomach before he—

Clarke cried out in surprise as an arm snaked around her stomach and pulled her backwards into solid heat. As everyone looked over in shock and concern, a familiar chuckle echoed over her shoulder.

"You okay?" Bellamy asked with great amusement. The muscles in his arm flexed as he laughed, and she felt her stomach flip at his overwhelming presence.

"Can you not!" Clarke muttered, ripping herself out of his embrace because the solid, warm feel of him against her back was sending her thoughts to wildly inappropriate places. As she turned to face him, every muscle in her body tense with awareness and frustration, she watched the smile on his face disintegrate. His eyes darted to the staring people around them, lips clenching in anger.

"Sorry," he snapped.

At his abrasive tone and her growing embarrassment at her overreaction, Clarke felt her cheeks flush. Pressing one hand to her face, she whispered, "I'm sorry, it's just—"

"No need to explain, Clarke," Bellamy responded tightly, backing even further away from her. "I get it."

Spinning on his heel, he strode off. Clarke tried to grab his arm, to keep him from leaving, but he was too quick, pacing off into the night. As she watched him disappear along the camp perimeter, her stomach clenched anxiously. Appetite lost, she slipped out of the food line and retreated back inside the Ark. Clarke wandered the halls for a while, trying to walk off her edginess, but eventually her feet led her to Bellamy's room. As she slid open the door, she hoped he would be inside so she could explain herself.

Dark, empty silence greeted her instead. With a sigh, because it was better to head things like this off with him before they spun out of control, Clarke kicked off her boots and crawled into his bed to wait for him to return. It was absurdly early to sleep, so she lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, recalling how they had spent last night in the very same bed, as close as two people could get. Closing her eyes, she did what only an hour ago she had been trying to avoid completely: she let the memories of Bellamy flood in, causing her breath to hitch and her veins to fill with heat.

While replaying scenes in her mind, she must have drifted off, because the next time she opened her eyes, dusky dawn light peaked in through the square window above the bed. Rolling over, she noticed Bellamy splayed out across a camp roll on the ground, covered in blankets and furs. Sighing at his stubbornness and her own selfishness for taking the bed, Clarke sat up, running a hand through her messy, tangled hair. She shifted, crossing her legs and leaning up against the wall behind her. As the morning light grew steadily brighter, she contented herself with watching Bellamy, his breathing easy and face softened with sleep.

Finally, he began to wake. He shook off sleep quickly, as he always did and always had, not quite able to kick the habit from a more dangerous time. When he realized she was watching him, the relaxation in his shoulders disappeared and the look in his eyes grew hard.

"Morning," Clarke said evenly, testing out his mood.

"Morning," he replied sullenly. "Hope you don't consider this being too close to you, by the way. You are in my room, after all."

Clarke resisted rolling her eyes, because while she did genuinely feel bad he had slept on the floor, she also wasn't thrilled to deal with childish jibes.

"Will you let me explain?" She pleaded quietly.

"I need to get to my guard shift," he replied, pushing up from the floor and pulling a long-sleeved shirt and a sweater over his bare chest.

"Bell, it'll take two seconds, I swear."

"I told you, Clarke, I read you loud and clear," he ground out, shoving his feet into his boots. "You don't want me touching you where everyone can see. Got it."

The bitterness in his voice told Clarke everything; even after months of being together, he thought she didn't want to be seen intimately connected with him in public. Insecurities were never easily banished, especially not with how the two of them had started out on the ground. So, as gently as she could, she said, "No, I don't think you do."

Climbing off the bed, she slipped in front of the door as he reached for the handle. Glaring at her, he growled, "Move."

"No."

"Clarke, move."

"No, not until you listen to me."

"You're acting like a child," he said, voice rising in anger.

Clarke scoffed. "Really, because you're the one throwing the temper tantrum right now."

Expression thunderous, Bellamy shouted, "I don't care why the hell you flinched away from me yesterday, it doesn't matter, just move!"

"It's because you drive me fucking crazy!" Clarke yelled back, face tipped up towards his in indignant outrage. "You keep touching me, and it's got me all worked up, and I just couldn't take it anymore!" She exclaimed, trailing off as she realized just how close they were. With barely a centimeter between her chest and his, she jerked back to lean against the cold metal door. _Goddamn it, even when he was pissed, he got to her_. To calm her anger and the other type of heat building inside her, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

Just as she was settling down, Bellamy began laughing uncontrollably. She cracked her eyes open and took in his delighted, surprised expression. His eyes danced with amusement, and his shoulders shook as he continued to laugh at her. Pursuing her lips, she fought the simultaneously urge to frown at his teasing and grin at the ridiculousness of the situation. She settled on a wry smile just as his laughter began to taper off. When he looked down at her, though, she realized he was barely holding back more, and she smacked a hand lightly against his chest.

"Ass," she said, a giggle bubbling up in her own chest. "Don't make fun of me."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he said with a grin that took up his whole face. Then, he leaned forward, propping himself up against the door with one arm. "How can I, when you've essentially told me that you can't control yourself around me?"

Clarke felt her cheeks warm at his proximity, trapped as she was between him and the door. The blush slowly spread down her neck, across her chest, racing down her sides and settling low when Bellamy crowded even closer. Stepping forward, he placed a foot in between hers, and she shifted her hips forward, shoulder blades now pressed even harder against the door.

"So, Clarke, how do you feel about me touching you now?"

She smiled. "I think I'd be okay with it now."

"You think?"

Pausing, Clarke looked up, pretending to consider his offer, teasingly drawing out the suspense. Then she met his stare and practically melted at the heat burning in his eyes. "Definitely," she murmured in a low voice, which pitched upwards into a shriek as Bellamy yanked her forward, his lips crashing down on hers.

Soon they were just a tangle of limbs, pulling at each other's clothes and stumbling back towards the bed. Falling back onto the mattress roughly, Clarke welcomed Bellamy's warm, heavy weight pinning her down. As he ran his hands all over her, she moaned, that searing touch that was all his burning her up from the outside in. She wasn't even mad when he laughed at her reaction, dark brown eyes dancing with newly informed amusement. Bellamy tried to keep his caresses slow and teasing, hoping to draw out the joke, but Clarke quickly proved he was just as susceptible to her touch as she was to his.

In the rising morning light, they finally joined their bodies and brought each other to the brink, falling over together with fingers intertwined and lips locked. For a while afterwards, they remained wrapped up in each other. Clarke traced lazy circles on Bellamy's back while he brushed his lips back and forth across her neck and shoulders. As the hall outside began to fill with noise, signaling the awakening of the rest of the camp, Bellamy finally pulled away.

"I'm going to be late," he murmured, voice rough with lingering want.

"Then you better get going," Clarke replied, stretching her arms over her head. She smiled as in groaned at the taunting press of her chest to his. "I suppose I should head to the medbay as well."

Leaning back in, Bellamy kissed her deeply before saying, "But we never did resolve your little problem."

Clarke rolled her eyes at the smugness in his voice. "You're impossible. This is why I hadn't said anything until now. But, I suppose, now that you know, the least you can do is give me fair warning if you're going to touch me."

"You need an announcement every time? That's going to sound awfully strange to our friends," he said mockingly.

Whacking his shoulder, Clarke made a face. "No, just, I don't know. Let me know you're there before you grab me from behind?"

"That's no fun."

She sighed. "Fine, if you absolutely _cannot_ resist touching me in public," Clarke paused, smirking at the twist in her words as Bellamy narrowed his gaze at the same time, "then you better damn well follow through when we're alone."

With a slow grin, he captured her lips roughly, hands seeking her skin once again. After he managed to work her back up, restarting that fire he so easily sparked in her, Bellamy pulled back suddenly, answering, "Now that is the least I can do for the woman I love."

Then, still smiling, he hopped out of bed, despite her protests. Quickly, he dressed, offering her one last kiss goodbye before hurrying out the door. As Bellamy called an intimate '_see you later_' over his shoulder, Clarke flopped back down onto the mattress, releasing a happy groan. With a small, content grin, she stared up at the ceiling, supposing that maybe her weakness for Bellamy's touch, given what he gave her in return, wasn't that much a problem after all.


End file.
